The Silent One
by almondgirl3
Summary: A touch of fate is all that seems to bring Edward and Bella together. Confused by the silence of her mind and then later caught by her undeniable scent, Edward follows her, unable to let her go...only it brings him close to his Creator: a man whose principles and way of life he has long rejected. But in order to get what we want, compromises must be made... OOC Darkward
1. Terminal

**The Silent One**

**Disclaimer: **I'm not Stephenie Meyer. Obvs.

**AN:** The vampires in this fic neither adopt tradition nor Meyer's vamp rules. They don't glitter and they don't catch on fire when touched by daylight. Instead, I'll be taking inspiration from the rules of Deborah Harkness's world wherein the "burning from sunlight" legend comes from the idiom "in the cold light of day" where everything is clearer. I can't remember how she put it exactly, and I'd have to reread it in order to do so, but the gist was that the basic nature of humans was to deny anything abnormal—or supernatural. It was an ingrained behaviour, but with enough effort or perception, you'd be able to see that something wasn't quite "right" about that person who was taller and paler and more striking than the average human.

**Edward is dark**. I love dark fics; it's always much more fun for me to read, so I'm thinking it'll be a lot of fun to write. I also don't foresee myself writing any other perspective than Edward's; he speaks to me much stronger than Bella. His story is also infinitely more interesting and his darkness will come through more by writing this as **strictly EPOV**.

This is also just a **side project** from writing my book; just something to fill the void and keep my creative juices aflowin'. So be warned, it might be forgotten and left to gather dust…if something can do so on the internet.

**Playlist: **

_When Ginny Kissed Harry _by Nicholas Hooper for _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_

_Starlight_by Taylor Swift

_The Twist_ by A. A. Bondy

* * *

**Chapter One: Terminal**

Airports. How I loathe thee…

I cringe as the hum of voices get louder and louder. Not any more articulate; there are too many to be able to understand anything without a large amount of effort. And frankly, I doubt their thoughts deserve it.

Further back, when we were still on the highway, it was all just a slowly approaching wave of noise; the dull hum broken up from the thoughts of drivers as they whizzed past. The Chinese cab driver was irritatingly slow as he made his way to the domestic airport and the disgusting conversation he was having with a friend over which race was the better fuck made me want to snap his neck…even if that does sound a little melodramatic.

I might be indiscriminate in who I fed from or decided to kill, but I was ever the gentleman towards a lady; a behaviour that stayed with my Change.

Plus, I hate bad drivers.

'Wait,' he says when I move to open the passenger door. 'You give me too much.'

'Keep it,' I mutter and pull the handle, climbing out of the backseat. I can hear him protest as I shut the door; a learned habit of politeness, because I can hear his mind brighten with the ideas of what he could spend it on. His thoughts flitter back to his earlier conversation with his friend.

The electric doors slide apart when I near them. I was right in thinking it was busy from the hum of voices I could hear outside: the terminal is bustling with people; and I'm glad I ate breakfast this morning—an unusual habit for as a rule, we prefer the shroud of darkness when it was time for a meal.

My brow furrows and I raise my left hand to look at my watch: the twenty-fifth. Thanksgiving was just around the corner. _Why hadn't I noticed this?_

I sigh. I guess having no one to thank or any family to "celebrate" it with made remembering dates such as these a low priority. For a moment my thoughts drift to a few I'd all but forgotten. Being what I am made forgetting an impossibility, but I thought of them as little as possible. The pressure of having another highly talented and altruistic father wasn't anything I wanted for my second life, especially already having reached adulthood. I'd had my fill of that when I was human, doing everything I could to please him and mirror his achievements until I'd died when my life was nearly half over.

I wasn't going to do that again. Not for a strange man who looked more like the younger brother I would've had were it not for my mother dying in childbirth, taking her unborn son with her.

Redirecting my thoughts from that darkened path, I look over at the ticket desks…and the lines of people standing in front of them.

_I should've planned this a little better…or at all._

Resigning myself to my fate, or my failure to think ahead of time, I join the queue.

Not having packed anything aside from wallet and phone, which were pocketed in my jeans, I find a little distraction by reading the novel of the woman in front of me from over her shoulder. It's one of those romance novels with wildly descriptive sex scenes that have become incredibly popular since the publishing boom of _that_ book. But in the lead up to yet another earth-shattering orgasm, I roll my eyes and look away. Thankfully, the line had moved forward: I was now only ten people away from buying my ticket and getting on a plane headed to New York.

I hadn't been there for a while. Decades, really. It would be nice to visit the galleries; an incredibly pretentious affair, but one I enjoyed nonetheless.

I tilt my head to see the front of the queue: a young woman, a girl really, is waiting for her turn. And from the way she fidgets, she's not very comfortable. I tend to be the same, although my dislike of crowds was for a whole other reason: despite smelling like dinner, people were stupid and I was deigned to listen to it.

She holds a hand to her face, and while I can only see the back of her, I'd guess she's chewing on her nails. Not a good habit, but I guess there are worse. Smoking for one: it tainted the blood. Not so much that it was really a problem, but I did prefer a more…organic flavour.

I frown, thinking of how I sound like one of those new wave hippies with unnecessary glasses and who are all about green living and unadulterated food.

The man at the ticket desk picks up his bag and walks away holding his ticket.

_Fuck, I hate my job. Fucking _ass_hole_… 'Next please.' Her bright voice belies her thoughts; it makes me smile…slightly. Until she spots me, my face slightly craned from when I looked at the young woman, and mentally swoons.

At the front of the queue, the girl reaches for the handle of her bag, but the angle she pulls it at is wrong; it twists and as she tries to right it, the bag slung over one shoulder slips off and yanks at the crook of her elbow. She pulls it up and rights herself, but I can see the blush on her cheek from her slightly turned face.

My eyebrows tilt down, confusion wiping away the annoyance from the ticket lady.

She pulls her bag along behind her and walks to the ticket desk.

I concentrate on her, almost burning a hole in the back of her head, and she touches her hair, smoothing it down like she can feel my eyes on her.

My jaw clenches tight; my teeth grind against each other. _What the fuck is going on?_

She's silent. She's quiet enough when she speaks to the woman behind the desk, handing over her ticket, but being what I am, I can hear her clearly: a one-way ticket to Port Angeles with a stop-over in Seattle. But her mind…I can't hear her.

The woman hands her back her ticket with a bright smile. The girl takes it, thanking her quietly, and walks off in the direction of her terminal.

My head whips to the flight schedule hanging from the ceiling. _Seattle…Seattle…ah!_ It doesn't depart for another half hour. Good.

But also _not_ good…

Port Angeles would bring me closer to the Cullens than I'd been for nearly a century. Alice might've already seen me, but she saw many things. Her Change couldn't heal everything: the electro-shock therapy had addled her brain far beyond repair; so much of what she saw and thought didn't live in this reality, but her own world of dreams and nightmares. So if I _were_ to run into them, I would need to be careful; Carlisle would likely see it as a cry for help.

Perhaps that was my in...because I knew there wasn't a chance of me leaving her—the Silent One—before I'd learnt her secrets.

~_The Silent One_~

I make it just before the doors close. That fucking woman with her _awful_ fucking book decided to throw a tantrum when it turned out she'd misread her flight plan and came the day _after_ her it took off. Not only did she read such a badly written book when there was much better ones available and often for free, it turned out she couldn't read at all.

She was my second imagined kill of the day and I "shattered her world" when I imagined tearing her neck open.

I didn't hear what class the girl had gotten, but judging from the clothes she wore, I went with economy. What was the point in flying business for just over two hours?

Once inside the cabin, I see the flight attendants are walking down each aisle, making sure the overhead carriages are closed properly. I sigh when I notice that my seat's behind the attendant in front of me. As I head toward her, she looks up; her eyes widen slightly and her mouth pops open.

_Ohmygod. _This_ is why you wear fancy lingerie when no one's going to see it._

She schools her expression quickly and turns it into one of seduction. And when I turn my body to move past her, she makes no room for me, allowing her body to brush mine. I check the number—22C—before lowering myself into the cramped space, realising why you'd buy business class even if just for a two hour flight.

I notice a sweet smell in the air and I subtly breathe it in; my eyes close on reflex. I look at the seats before me: a man sits by the window reading a book, the person sitting in the middle is bent over and probably fussing with their bag, and in the aisle seat sits a young man with headphones, his music obnoxiously loud. I sniff again but I can't tell who the scent's owner is. Not until the middle person sits up, sending a wave of it towards me.

_Her_. The girl. The Silent One…and she smells _amazing_. Like flowers but one's I wanted to eat, savour on my tongue and enjoy their bloom all year round. I don't think I was never any happier to have already eaten, otherwise I'd have crushed my beautiful flower and all in the view of these people.

Their screams flooding my ears and mind would've ruined the experience. I would've had to commandeer the plane and crash it to make sure the flames wiped my crime, killing everyone on it. I had no qualms in taking a life to feed my own, but I couldn't kill _all_ of them…at least not in one sitting. Or without the benefit of enjoying them.

I watch as the girl twirls her long brown hair into a bun, fixing it atop her head with little pink and purple clips. She bends over again, moving out of sight, before sitting back and placing white buds inside her ears. She makes a soft sound that can't be heard from anyone but myself and her; she's indecisiveness and wondering what to listen to first.

Or so I guess.

I don't like that…_guessing_. I feel incredibly…human. It's an oddly familiar and unsettling feeling. Useless. I quickly look around at the humans I sit among, not wanting to miss anything she does. _Is that how they all feel? Is that how _I _felt?_ I close my eyes not liking the answer.

She's found something to listen to now. A composition. Classical but not _of_ the classics. Guitar and violins. Beautiful. I think I've heard it before but I can't place it.

Again, without even trying, she makes me feel like a fool. And for a moment, I want her to be my third imagined kill of the day. But I'd never learn her secrets that way and being silent, she'd be a keeper of many. And her smell…killing her would extinguish the perfume of her body and the heavenly taste her blood is sure to hold.

I sit back and settle into the chair. I block out the safety instructions of the flight attendants; they hardly apply to the likes of me. Instead, I watch her through the gap her chair and that of the young man with the obnoxiously loud music makes. She looks to her left as one of the attendants passes down the aisle, giving me a chance to look at her properly. Her small nose, with its smooth slope and slightly upturned tip, looks cute…as far as noses go. Her lips look soft and pink, the top slightly larger than the bottom. Her tongue peeks out to wet the skin before she looks down.

She continues to do so, her attention caught by whatever she is in her hands. I can't see them from where I sit, but there's a soft metallic scraping. It reminds me of something…but I can't place it. I could pretend to need to use the water closet; I'd be able to see what was in her lap that way, but I don't want to leave her. What if I miss the moment her mind would open to me? It's a sad excuse, but I take it.

The pilot's voice speaks over the cabin. It's overcast and chilly in Seattle and we're due to touch down in fifteen minutes. The Silent One bends over to pack whatever she occupied her time with into her bag.

I remain seated after touch down and wait for the aisle to become less congested; the girl does the same until the man on her left stands up, forcing her to move because he's too large to slip past her. So like her, I join the line; I keep my distance though, with a few people between us, and follow her out into the terminal.

She walks for a while, her head turning to each side every so often: she's lost. The woman at the ticket desk booked me a seat on the shuttle bus that heads over to the Boeing Field where passengers board the plane to take them to Port Angeles; she must be looking for the shuttle stop.

I frown, wondering whether or not to approach her. She already seems uncomfortable; I don't want to scare her away before finding out her secrets. For all the years I've lived, never have I come across a mind as impenetrable as hers. Her thoughts are a fortress…but all things have a weak point. I will find it eventually. So selfishly, I leave her to wander.

Seemingly fed up with wandering the terminal, and likely anxious not to miss her connecting flight, she makes her way to an information desk. After receiving directions, the Silent One makes her way outside, and due to her being lost earlier, there's no need to wait out in the cold. She gives her name to the driver who looks at a sheet of paper; he nods and she gets on.

'No luggage?' he asks when I approach.

'No.'

'Alright. Name?'

'Edward Masen.'

He looks down and finds my name at the bottom.

'Last minute booking, I see.'

The smile he offers becomes a little strained, so I offer him the slightest explanation. 'Change of plans.'

'Right. Well, hop on; we'll be leaving in…ten minutes,' he says as he checks his watch.

I climb the stairs of the small bus, and of the twenty seats—two on each side of the aisle—nearly half are taken, although many are seated alone, preferring an empty space beside them. The Silent One is among them: I find her sitting three seats behind the driver's seat, her bag at her feet leaving the seat beside her empty, with a mustard ball of yarn in her lap, her fingers moving the needles.

_Ah!_ The soft metallic scraping I heard on the plane. _What an odd hobby for someone so young._

I spy a completely empty seat on the other side of the bus, so I head towards it. When I'm seated, I notice that it gives me a better view of her; I like that. The white buds are in her ears, though she never took them out; except now she's listening to something decidedly more upbeat. It makes me smile. She _is_ interesting.

A few more people board the shuttle; each avoid taking the seat beside me. Humans can be quite smart; although, I guess the small glimpse of self-preservation is an ingrained habit of their nature rather than any evidence of their intelligence.

The girl's body jerks slightly; my jaw tilts my face up in an effort to get a better look. She moves awkwardly in her seat and pulls the buds from her ears before placing her phone near her ear.

'Hi, Charlie,' she says. And though I heard her speak before, both of those times were with strangers, tinging her voice with a guarded tone. This Charlie must familiar and someone close for she sounds softer…and almost exasperated.

_'How did you know it was me?'_ The voice—male—sounds slightly confused.

'Caller ID.'

_'Right. So, did you make it to Seattle alright?'_

'Mhmm. I'm on the shuttle at the moment and we should be heading off to the airfield soon.'

_'And you should get into Port Angeles 'round five.'_ It wasn't a question, but he was checking all the same.

'Yep. I've got like forty minutes to kill before the plane leaves.'

The man grunts softly. _'Well, I'll see you soon Bells; gotta few more things to handle here at the station, but I'll be there to pick you up.'_

'Thanks, Charlie.'

The driver closes the door and turns on the ignition; the shuttle rumbles softly.

'Hey—I gotta go. We're leaving now.'

_'Okay. See you soon, Bells.'_

She looks a little torn but hangs up without saying anything more. She pops the buds back in her ears and picks up her needles.

I sit further back into my chair and wonder who Charlie is. He sounded older. Her father perhaps? And what's "the station"? Police? The Fire Department? I suppose I would find out soon anyway.

~_The Silent One_~

I keep my distance after we arrive at the Boeing Airfield's terminal. The girl—Bells, although it feels too strange to call her such; it feels too _close_—moves away to sit by herself, and instead of pulling her knitting out of her bag, she retrieves a book. She curls one leg underneath her and begins to read.

Every so often she curses or gasps quietly, enraptured by what she's reading. I like that; most people are passive when they read, so it's quite amusing to see someone react so strongly to a book. It makes me wonder what it is, but I'd only noticed its dark cover when she'd pulled it from her bag.

A voice crackles over the speakers to tell passengers that boarding for the four-thirty flight to Port Angeles has commenced. And this time, instead of following after her, I leave her and head for the plane. I know where she's going; I won't lose her.

I'm sitting in the aisle seat when the girl boards the plane. She checks her ticket and walks down the aisle. She slows as she nears me and checks her ticket again; her head tilts slightly to the right as she checks the number on the side of my chair. And then she looks at me.

A little nervous. Slightly unsure of herself. But not out of fear; I don't smell that on her. I would think she'd have felt this regardless of who she was to sit next to; she was the same when the man forced her to move into the aisle. It's more like she doesn't like the intrusion.

Her eyes, large and kind looking, a deep and lovely brown, look into mine for a moment before she drops them to my chest. Her teeth catch her lip and she shuffles forward, her book in hand and her bag hanging off one shoulder. Her scent moves with her; an invisible cloud whose smell grows stronger, sweeter with every step. She reaches me and stops; her fingers grip her book making its pages squeak a little in her nervousness.

Her eyes look to me. She speaks, or begins to, before gesturing to the empty seat next to me. She's very sweet and the beating rhythm of her heart warms her scent.

I placate her and smile softly; the movement feels new to my face, not having smiled for an age. 'Is this your seat?' I wave my hand to the space beside me.

The corners of her lips pull into a gentle smile before it fades quickly. 'Yeah.'

Forcing the gentleness to stay on my face, I pull myself from my seat to stand in the aisle. With a gesture of my arm, I tell her to sit down; she smiles that little smile and thanks me quietly. With her body so close to mine, I can feel her heat; I breathe in quietly and my eyes close. Beautiful.

She plops down in her seat and places her bag at her feet, and with her book in her lap, she looks at me, silently telling me to sit back down. Or at least to show that she's ready. She ignores the book in her lap—one which I now see that I've read not long ago—and presses 'play' on her iPod: the same younger woman as before sings into her ears, telling her tales of love and woe. And then she turns her face to the small window, looking out onto the tarmac.

I rest my head back against the chair and relish in the heat her body freely offers mine. I suppose humans tend to have this effect on my kind, but I only ever feel it when I feed. Aside from bouts of hunger, I like to avoid being in their presence.

My finger traces my phone through the fabric of my jeans. Would informing I was coming go better than just showing up unannounced and after so many years? I don't know what I would say…but I imagine Carlisle would read my surprise visit and the fact that I hadn't called as proof of my soul's struggle to repent and live a meaningful and good life. Like any zealot, he twisted what he saw to fit his ideals.

Tilting my head slightly in my enigma's direction, I let her warmth sooth my face. She's still listening to poppy music, the girl now singing about colours and Maseratis; its popularly and youthfulness seem at odds with how she presents herself. Aside from the pink and purple clips that keep the bun on top of her head intact, she dresses more like a boy, or at least _unbecoming_ of a lady.

I can see that she's small: her height, as well as her slender wrists—revealed to me since the long sleeve has slid down her arm as her fingers tap softly against the window—show as much. But the clothes she chooses to wear dwarf her. The loose navy striped top and large knit sweater cover her chest, while her legs are dressed in baggy jeans. The weather would seem cold to her, which would explain her choice of attire, but she doesn't seem the type to wear anything tight, even when the weather permits it. And surprisingly, I don't like that. Although, keeping her shielded from eyes other than mine does sit well with me: my kind are intuitively possessive and jealous.

But—_what's this?_ She mightn't repulse me like her kind tends to do, but my interest in her…this _specimen_—it's scientific. A project. I do love a good puzzle.

_Yes. My enigma. The Silent One…she will prove most interesting._

Her book remains in her lap, untouched, while her eyes remain cast out the window. She changes the music; the slower melody, pleading strings of guitar, and dazed vocals are a mirror to the darkening sky outside, the threat of rain looming on the horizon. She closes her eyes and moves her hand to take the clips from her hair, clipping them to the hem of her sweater instead, and with a shake of her head, her hair unfurls from its bun and tumbles around her shoulders.

Her sweet smell assaults me and I close my eyes and breathe her in slowly, stealing a part of her she so willingly gives to me. I turn the action into a drawn out stretch for worry of making her uncomfortable. People don't like it when they know their scent is being assessed.

When I open my eyes, I see that unpinning her hair has curtained her face from my view; annoying, but I suppose this allows me to look at her more intimately. Her breath becomes deeper, a little slower, and while I can't see her closed eyes, I know that she's been lulled to sleep.

~_The Silent One_~

She wakes with a long drawn-in breath as the pilot speaks over the intercom; I turn my face away from her and look towards the front of the cabin. From the corner of my eye, I see her wind the buds around her iPod, before pulling her bag to her lap—a worn maroon backpack—to pack away her things. And with her lap free of her book, she reaches her hands up above her, closes her eyes and stretches her body, her limbs tired from inaction.

I've been stuck next to my puzzle for nearly forty minutes, having her sweet scent curl around me, only then to have to sit still while she stretches before me like a kitten awoken from a nice sleep. With a satisfied moan, she taunts me, tells me I won't unlock her.

My jaw sets and my hand moves to rub my face, wiping away the murderous look I'm sure has set there. _Oh, little girl…I will. And what's more, I'll make you want me to._

_~__The Silent One_~

'How was your flight?'

She hums at the man's question and lets him take her roller bag. 'Fine.'

He takes it around and opens the boot; he grunts as he lifts it in, then pulls the top down. My first guess was correct: Charlie is a police officer. The _Chief_ as it turns out.

_I will need to be careful…_

I watch her open the passenger-side door, shuck her bag from her shoulder and slide in. Charlie frowns slightly, but it might just be the set of his face, and then he joins her. He pulls away from the curb and drives off. My muscles draw tight.

Once the cruiser is gone from view, I turn around and head for the tree line. The terminal's almost empty, many of the passenger's having left already, so no one will see me leave via the alternate route. I'd pretended to be waiting for someone like her, just so I could watch her a while longer. The man obviously running late, and while it evidently annoyed her to be stuck out in the cold—something which _did_ irk me_—_I relished the extra time his tardiness afforded me. But now with her gone, I need to deal with the Cullens.

I could forego seeking them out, but after seeing the signage on the sides of the man's police cruiser, I knew I'd be spending quite a bit of time in Forks. And even if Alice hadn't seen my arrival, they'd soon smell my scent within the forest. I would need to handle them before I sought out my enigma.


	2. Red Coat

**Chapter Two: The Red Coat**

**Disclaimer:** Not Stephenie Meyer. Obvs.

**AN:** I forgot to mention (or even _make_ an author note) at the end of the first chapter, that the book Bella is reading is _The Twelve_ by Justin Cronin. I was reading it at the time I was writing the chapter and the fact that it's another vampire novel (although it's a far different take than Meyer's world) fit in nicely, I thought. But I felt that mentioning the title would've interrupted the narrative flow; same goes for the playlist.

Also, the music I included in the playlist for the first chapter was music Bella was _actually_ listening to. The music by Pinto and Dumas are taken from my well-loved and listened to "Sleepytime" mix that I listen to all the time…and not just when I'm sleepy. _Anyway_, when I was writing this chapter, these two, above all else, were what I heard. And if you're interested to hear the mood of this chapter, or just some really beautiful music, you might wanna check them out.

Another thing is the genre classification. I selected Supernatural (for the vamps) and Romance (for Edward and Bella), but there'll also be quite a lot of Psychological Drama, Mystery and Crime. I also figured out the whole story arc…and it's _way_ more twisted than I originally thought *rubs hands in glee* It'll take a while for it to get into that stuff, but I've got it all planned out now, so this story does have a direction. Not just waffle now. Yay!

I also thought I'd finish this chapter and get it up within a week since posting the first; I also think I told someone I'd try to keep to a weekly posting schedule, but that was pretty optimistic (or naïve) of me to say. And if you wanna thank someone, it was **michael vandebroek**'s review that nudged my writer's mind and got this chapter posted.

**Playlist:**

_Soul Outside_ by Antonio Pinto for _The Host_

_Memories of Childhood_ by Alexandre Dumas for _The King's Speech_

* * *

_The Red Coats are coming._

Alice. Her thoughts might be mirroring her words, but I'm not close enough to hear them. A good thing: they haven't heard me yet and so I'll have a chance to watch them. The years which have passed have turned us into strangers. And in order for this to work, I must wait to see how best to make my approach.

I hear a few of their minds groan; she must've spoken of her vision.

_Red Coats. Almost right, Alice. But not quite…_

I look around me. It's getting late; the beginnings of twilight touch the cloud cover, turning an already gloomy day into quick shadow. Silently, I bend into a crouch. My hand brushes against the forest floor and I close my eyes, finding comfort in the absolute darkness behind closed lids, and listen to their minds.

A little smile plays on my lips. Carlisle is making love to his wife before he leaves for the night shift at the hospital. _Still benevolent as ever, I see_.

Hospitals are such a tease to the tongue: beds full of the sick and dying; yet instead of alleviating them of their pain and quenching his burning thirst in one action…he _heals_ them. And not with the magic of his blood, but with knives and needles and _chemicals_—it's disgusting. It's practically an insult to mar the sweet suppleness of their flesh and the river of blood that flows underneath it with such barbaric practices.

But I suppose it's of little consequence: the sick don't taste very good anyway. Their blood has lost that delicate essence of life…and I do love that overwhelming flavour.

A sigh rumbles through my chest when I think of her. _My enigma_. All the others I've drank from and killed in the ecstasy will have nothing on her. I know it only from her smell.

_Death? _

In the soil softened by rain, my fingers find purchase in the earth, though its density hardly matters given the strength our kind is gifted.

_No. She serves another purpose…one I've yet to understand._

I spread my fingers, flaying the earth, and focus my energy towards the task at hand.

Alice must still be raving about the Red Coats because I can hear Jasper giving her a dose of mental Valium. _I never did understand those two..._

Most of the time, Jasper had to control her moods to keep her from being swept up in hysteria. A vampire lost in the throes of a psychotic episode caused a certain level of destruction only met by the tantrum of an immortal child. Neither of which were a good thing; yet sadly, only one of which was punishable with a swift execution.

Well, I might not have understood the intensely symbiotic dynamic of their relationship, but having eavesdropped on Jasper, I could see that he relished the need Alice had for him. They were inseparable—and quite literally, I might add. Alice's hand always in Jasper's. They even shared their kill, intuitive possessiveness overridden by their need to stay in contact. It was…creepy.

I can't hear Rosalie's mind, and nor Emmett's, I realise, when I listen for him throughout the house. She could've taken him away on holiday from the dear family or they might well have just gone off to hunt. _I hope it's the latter_. Rosalie and I had an instant affinity for one another; something Carlisle had been hoping for when he Changed me, although it never developed into the romance he envisioned.

Carlisle had come across Rosalie during a stint in the state of New York during the late nineteenth century. He saw her mainly as the daughter he could gift his wife: a woman who longed to be a mother, yet as consequence of her immortality, was forever forbidden from doing so. And although Rosalie stayed with them, Carlisle failed quite miserably in his initial task as Rosalie was steadfastly independent, relegating Esmé to the role of something akin to the fawning step-mother, trying to insert herself into a life where she was neither wanted nor needed.

Years later, Carlisle's work took him to Chicago. It was autumn: my favourite time of year. And my soul belonged to a devil of a different name—the American Justice System.

I was the walking dead before I was officially one of them. I was tired of the life I'd built in honour of a father who had not only never cared, but made his indifference painfully known to me. I was a slave to my blood's creator, working at the law firm he built single-handedly—something I was reminded of every day of my miserable life. And yet as his only son and child, it was also the legacy he would begrudgingly give to me when he died.

As it turns out, Fate had other plans…

In 1918, Carlisle was working at the recently renamed Chicago State Hospital—his first foray into the field of mental health. And in much the same way as he found Rosalie, Carlisle found me the victim of a different kind of stabbing—one actually done with a knife. And so, Carlisle found his next Child…

I'd seen a woman, her clothes torn by a man who sought to steal something from her. And for once, sick of defending the rapists and murderers who sought my father's council—for which they paid a hefty price—I wanted to help someone. The _right_ person. The one who _deserved_ my help. Only, being a _lawyer_, the most exercise I got was from carrying boxes full of documents or writing far too quickly for anything to be legible, none of which train you to take on another man…and win.

After I woke in my new life, I asked Carlisle what had happened. From our bodies, he surmised that the woman had been raped on the ground right next to me, the man apparently unperturbed of my dying, and then left to join me in my passing. A soul with fight, her injuries were more substantial than mine, so by the time Carlisle arrived, he was only able to save one of us.

_Save…_

Yes, I suppose that's right. The power I've achieved in my second life has far surpassed that of my old one. And I would've loved the chance to rub it in my father's face, only he's long since dead…and not from old age.

Though sometimes, I do wonder if it weren't her that he really saved.

I sigh, pulling my fingers from the damp earth.

If only it were reversed…perhaps then Carlisle would've been given the Child he so longed for.

~_The Silent One_~

I decide to wait until after Carlisle has left for the hospital. I don't foresee him being a problem, not when I recall his tireless efforts in trying to mould me to his image, but I'm not ready for the Salvation Campaign just yet.

The forest around me is quiet. Those of the daylight hunker down for the night, while those of the moon are only beginning to wake. And soon, the shadows will hum with renewed life.

My thoughts drift back to my dear little enigma and I wonder what she might be doing. Perhaps more of her knitting, although I hope she doesn't stick to the mustard colour. Or perhaps she's preparing dinner. I check my watch and take note of the hour. Humans do tend to eat around this time...although it sometimes seems like they never stop eating. Like cows.

But that man; will he join her?

Charlie, the police officer. He's likely her father; he bore the same eye colour as her, but many have that shade. But there's…also the possibility that their relationship is not…_familial_. Age has never been that much of an issue when it comes to matters of the heart.

A frown draws my eyebrows together. I don't think I like the direction those thoughts are headed in.

_~The Silent One~_

With the dark of night fully bloomed, I hear Carlisle leave; his thoughts grow more distant as he drives away. But I wait a while longer. And it's when I'm about to stand from my crouched position on the forest floor—the toll of the passed hour leaving no ache in my limbs—that I hear another's mind. A friend.

She's not alone however: Emmett accompanies her. And while Rose may find comfort in him; I merely suffer his presence.

There isn't anything essentially _wrong_ with Emmett; he just has no substance. He's passive and uninteresting, and being as selective as I am with whom I include in my life, Emmett does not make the cut. And he hasn't; not for many a year.

My lips curl into a smile. _Perhaps Rose has grown to feel the same way_…

I speak into the night, elevating my voice so that she'll hear. 'Haven't I already told you that the pout isn't a good look?'

Her thoughts go haywire. Annoyance stutters into shock. Confusion. Hope.

The last feels…uncomfortable.

And then she speaks, calling out my name.

I lean against an ancient spruce and pick at the bark; I let each scratch guide her to me. Emmett follows like a dog tied to a leash.

'_Edward!_'

I can see her now, wisps of her hair, golden even in the night, flash between the trees. Her thoughts are quicker than her feet, but she finds me quickly.

'You're here.' She comes to a stop a few feet from where I stand; Emmett a step behind her. She says it once more, as if she doesn't believe the sight before her.

'It's been a long—'

'It's been _too_ long, Edward.' And like that, the lightness she felt at finding me is gone.

'You always were quite volatile,' I say, picking at the bark.

'And you were always a cold bastard.'

Silence. And then her lips twitch.

'It wouldn't be so weird if I hugged you right now, would it?' Rose asks.

I sigh and push myself away from the tree. 'Well, _normally_ I would say no.'

'But…?'

'But it's been eighty years—'

'Eighty-_five_.'

I continue as if she didn't correct me. 'So I think I can make a concession.'

She smiles. And then her arms are around me.

'But _just_ one.'

'Oh, shut up.'

Emmett clears his throat.

'You, too,' she says flippantly, but she pulls away from the hug. 'You look good.'

I frown slightly. 'I look the same.'

She waits.

'But you look good, too.'

'_Thank _you, Edward. The years have treated me rather well…not that _you_ would know,' she mutters. 'But—and it's not that I'm not happy to see you, Edward. Because I am.'

'Happy? To see _me_? I don't think I've ever made anyone _happy_…'

She slaps my chest. 'Stop feeling sorry for yourself. And _yes_. I'm happy to see you. Left me alone with this lot…' But then remembers that Emmett can still hear her, so she turns to him and touches his cheek softly. 'I don't mean _you_, darling.'

'I know,' he says softly, leaning into her palm, before looking at me. ' Alice and Jasper.'

_Like I don't know._

Rose turns around to face me again, a little smirk plastered on her face; it falls a little when she remembers what she was about to ask me. 'But…why _are_ you, Edward? Why are you here?'

'Can't I just miss you?'

She snorts. '_No_.'

'I—it's…_complicated_.'

She's about to say something, when I take Emmett's glance at her ass to pointedly glance at him. Understanding softens her brow. _We'll talk later._

'Have you seen the others yet?'

'And not see you first?'

'Always a smart one.' She smirks. 'I would've made you regret it.'

'It was out of _love_—not fear, Rose.'

'Of course, it was.' She takes a step in the direction of the house, but stops.

'I ate earlier…'

I ignore Emmett's silent disapproval, but not Rose's.

_I don't know why you're here; I don't care. I hope you stay, but if you do…your diet will need to be…_fixed_. Carlisle won't_—

'I was…' I try to act uncomfortable, drawing from my own collection of memories and from years of watching humans…and from one in particular. 'I was hoping that Carlisle…that Carlisle would…_help_ me.'

Rose rolls her eyes but says nothing; I'm glad for her loyalty despite not having seen her for almost a century. Emmett doesn't say a word; though his thoughts are something else entirely.

I stifle the smile that threatens my lips. Because although he acts unperturbed, stoic behind Rose, _inside_, Emmett feels his hold on Rose is threatened. He fears that my wish to repent and change my _evil_ ways will steal Rose away from him.

His_ hold?_ I bite my tongue.

I may have stayed with Carlisle and his "family" for just over a decade—Emmett being a member for less than half that time—but Rose was the only person I was close to.

I feel Rose's hand take my own. 'Carlisle will be _so_ pleased.'

~_The Silent One_~

We walk to the house, and even between their footsteps, the vampire ears inside pick up on the new addition. And Alice begins murmuring about Red Coats all over again.

But it's Esmé who's the first outside. Her eyes widen when they find me next to Rose; her feet skid to a stop for a second before she launches herself at me.

I ignore Rose's annoyance over Esmé not asking; unlike the others, Rose was always more understanding. She hardly minded my avoidance of bodily contact as she was much the same, her only exceptions being myself and Emmett, who despite his size, was something more of a pet to her. All others, however, were treated with a cold warning—or, with mood depending, the breaking or severing of limbs.

Severing was never a problem for our kind, if attached within a certain time frame; but it _could_ pose a few problems if she say…snapped the hand of an enraptured human. Because, more her downfall than what could be considered a talent, Rose held an undeniable attraction. And for the weak-willed—or the especially aroused—Rose turned into something more like a hot meal for the starved. Because of this, Rose hardly ventured into the human world.

'Oh, _Edward_. I'm so _terribly_ happy that you're here!' Esmé squeezes me once more before taking a step back. 'Carlisle will be thrilled! You…_are_ staying, aren't you?'

'I…' I look at Rose.

And she finishes: 'He wants help.'

Esmé's eyes light up again. '_Oh!_' Her arms wrap around me and she buries her face in my chest. 'Edward. Oh, of course. Of _course_, we'll help you. This is so wonderful,' she says and steps away from me, resting her palm over my dead heart. 'I so wish Carlisle was here.' She smiles; it becomes rueful. 'But that man's at the hospital.'

Alice careens through the front door and flies down the steps, Jasper on her tail. I hear his mind send for hers, faltering her footsteps with his calmness. 'The Red Coat.'

Esmé looks to her, understanding flitting across her face. 'Ah, of course.'

_Yes. Of _course_. _

'Well, she may've gotten the colour right.' Rose gestures to my head. 'But Edward would never wear anything red.'

'I think black brings out my eyes better,' I mumble and Rose rolls her eyes.

'Her visions are not always straightforward. Sometimes, they require deciphering.' Jasper runs a hand over her head, petting Alice like a cat; he slides it down to rest it on the back of her neck.

Rose mimics him in her mind, her silent voice dripping with snark.

'Like poetry,' Alice chips in.

His fingers rub the skin of her neck. 'Exactly.'

'Why are you here?' Alice asks without preamble. It's not rude though; she just lacks the ability to recognise social nuances.

Esmé looks a little concerned though. 'Oh, that can wait until later. Something to discuss when Carlisle arrives home.'

Jasper is not of the same mind, however, and he makes it known…and not just to me. 'No. I think we all have a right to know. He's been gone for decades—'

'Eight and a half.'

'That's correct, Alice,' he says, drawing her closer into his body: a defensive measure. 'You left, Edward. You didn't agree with Carlisle's way of life. And your returning now, so unexpected…I don't know what to make of it.'

I can feel his mind probe at my emotions, so I make sure to level my reactions to his words at an understandable amount of offense. He frowns, a little surprised at my emotional spectrum; he doesn't know what to make of me. But as much as his suspicion irks me—however right he may be—it's Carlisle I need to convince. As the Father to this…_family_, his word is held above all others. If Carlisle accepts my presence here; if he accepts my explanation, my desire to change my ways, then what Jasper or any of the others think is of no consequence.

* * *

**AN:** I originally wanted this to be longer, and include Carlisle, but it felt right to end it where I have.


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